They the Prideful and Wrathful

Forgive me, lest my heart be forgotten

They scattered like the specks of dust in the wind, embraced by cold and fire, forged featherless wings of white mist, triangular and bright, fierce and fearless like the mightiest warriors of yore never to be abhorred by the world of lies; they had known, long before they had been, after they had seen that nothing of all remains. They to me were sublime, extraordinarily so, as grand as the skyscrapers that pierce the clouds, taunting rain to fall. But I wasn’t. I was small, just like that singular speck of dust unseen to the naked eye, shiningly beckoning the world from the grave distance. I was their shadow, a mimic of who they were, a mere counter-part to their greatness, heartless and soulless in all but humane sense – yet I was their pillar. I stood strong when they fell weak, when their greatness came to a pass and their tears soaked the faces, when their eyes reddened with fear and horror, when all they saw was pain, shackled up with hesitation – I was the one who helped them. They had to be known, had to be seen by the world, embraced and worshiped and loved and adored, even adorned by the eyes that watch, but in the end I was the one they returned to. In the end, when all was said and done, it was my whispers which they had heard. The world they lived in served them rightfully and they had been the greatest – all of them, each and every one of them.
Yet in my words was sadness, subliminal but apparent.

    They had all striven to reach the stars above, to dye up the Moon red, to blaze the sun even further, to reach where no man had reached before – they all had wished to cleanse the world of pain, to shatter the pallid illusions of life – yet some cowered in fear beneath the feet of the enemy rising. There were no enemies or walls they could not defeat; for their spirits were so great they outnumbered mine in thousands. Their greatest weakness was their pride – yes, they were quite prideful. All of them. It was a part of who they were, innate chill of frost which takes over them in the darkness of their hearts. Pride. Such a lustful and agonizing word. They all hated pride, yet they all relinquished in its glory. Prideful they stood among the strongest, like the pillar of iron in the field of hays, like a roaring lion in the herd of cattle – like a wolf hunting the rabbit. They marched back and forth, through years and years, they had traveled and crossed worlds, had seen things those before hadn’t and had been proud of it – so proud they marked their names among those of gods they slowly lost faith in. With each day their faith waned and their beliefs shattered – until there was nothing there. They had ridden horses through the storms, had stormed castles and built bridges and drove cars and built buildings as large as the mountains and flew in planes and changed the world many times. Yes, prideful they were indeed – almost as much as they were wrathful. Legend says there were seven sins which were gods and that they cleansed themselves as they created humanity, transferring the sins upon the world. They had embraced and casted away those sins; strange they were indeed, never fully understood or realized, even by me, one who was always there for them. They had often called for me, never willingly though, in a heartfelt way, sitting by a hearth with their hands clasped and crying and wishing their lives were different, their words taken, their prayers answered and their pain abolished. They had often done so, and I was always there for them. I would wipe away their tears and fears and all that which they passionately abhorred. Their wrath was as vast as the universe, never fully quenched – for they had often refused to quench it. It was detestable yet yearning thirst, one in which they’d drown blindingly, enjoying the most zealous delirium they had ever discovered.

    It is not to say they didn’t love; they did, with hearts open and closed, fearful and fearless, giving it all for the one they had adored. I always found it strange – it was a part of their nature to love and be loved as well as hate and be hated. Yet they’d often refuse to love, yet considered it the purest of forms. They had told me often they see it as the grandest of emotions, one which elevates. I searched for it, but was cursed never to find. And I envied them. I envied them with passion of doubt, drenching in speckles tears. And I had questioned them: how can one refuse to love? If it is the purest and grandest of all forms, isn’t that the only thing they should pursue? But they laughed. And I understood. It was their pride, taking form in face and space, and I had recognized it. But beyond that pride was pain. I recognized that as well. It swelled up so far it almost came flying through their eyes, but pride held it back. It was an eternal struggle – not that of good and evil, but that of pride and love. As old as the ages of men and as powerful as ever. It was a painful thing to watch; there had been laughter and mocking, but I learned. It was pride above all that was blocking the purest form from realizing. And fear. Fear had been a part of them ever since I met them; there was never one of them which was fearless. They’d climb the stage with a courage brewing in their eyes, yet beneath that mask there was fear. There was a heart pounding gravely, sweat drenching their clothes, their lips trembling. Fear and pride. Fear is deadly, it lives even inside of me. Yet fear is beautiful. Fear blocked love yet it forced it. For when they feared they had nothing to lose, they had taken the final step. They had realized their desires, and learned to live and embrace the fear. Fear and pride wrought pain, in unity and dismay, in battle and peace they had worked closely together, as two sides of the same coin, holding them back from the greatness they dreamt of. They had considered their lives and lives of all sacred, unbent, unbroken and unbound, uncondensed and sublime. Some thought themselves to be ugly both inside and out, as if they were creeps walking the night, and they had closed themselves in a shell. Yet they were all masterfully unique, perplexed and ambiguous and fervent and magnificent and breadth and ever-growing it bewildered my mind and I was often left speechless.


    Marvelous indeed they were and are and will be until the day the light of their lives grows thicker and dimmer and veers with darkness in the end, leaving them the way they were long ago. Nothing. As death I am, one which they love and fear the most, oh’ the vicious and merciful humans, prideful and wrathful and pained and fearful and loving, and as death I remain, I know your souls and hearts and your pains and fears and visions and dreams – all of which make you unique in rights of mortal and immortal, weak and strong – in eyes of men and gods – in eyes of your friend, Death.